


Starmaker

by White Queen Writes (fhartz91)



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Aziraphale is a shoe fitter, Don't copy to another site, F/F, Fluff, Ineffable Lovers, Ineffable Wives, Pining, Secret Crush, crowley is a ballerina
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:21:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27177803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fhartz91/pseuds/White%20Queen%20Writes
Summary: Crowley rushes into Aziraphale's shoe shop right at closing with a ballet emergency. She's in dire need of a new pair of pointe shoes, which she can only get at Aziraphale's shop.Made by a craftsman who identifies themselves with only a star ...
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 34
Kudos: 124





	Starmaker

**Author's Note:**

> I thought I would put a new twist on the whole 'Starmaker' trope XD

“Help me help me help me help me!” Crowley begs, racing through the door of Aziraphale’s shop a minute before closing, as is her custom. Crowley doesn’t leave the theater too often unless she absolutely has to, and that’s usually to go home. She can't get away with sneaking down back alleys dressed in a hoodie and a pair of sweats the way other dancers do. At over six feet tall _without_ her pointe shoes, an absolutely unheard of height for a principal dancer in any company, not to mention the Royal Ballet, and with her flame-red locks, she’s far too recognizable despite any of the disguises she tries to employ. 

Crowley loves her fans. She wouldn’t be where she is without them. But she’s not a people person. She appreciates her privacy. She despises being bothered outside the theater, away from the shield of the curtain and the stage.

Besides, she’d rather have her favorite shoe fitter all to herself.

“My goodness,” Aziraphale mutters, fussing with drawers of satin ribbons, pretending to be unaffected by the goddess flying down the aisle towards her in desperate yet glamorous despair. “Whatever could be the matter, my dear?”

“Whatever could be the matter?" Crowley mimics. "I’ll tell you what could be the matter! I am set to dance Sleeping Beauty in just under a week, as you well know …”

“As I well know …”

“... and my pointe shoes died! Out of the blue _died_!” Crowley pulls her broken shoes from out her pockets as proof of her grief.

“Don’t you keep about eight pairs in rotation?” Aziraphale asks, moving on to a basket of elastics with practiced nonchalance.

“Yes, but they’re all scuffed and creased. I don’t want to wear those on stage." Crowley smirks like the brat she is. "I can’t help it if my feet look their best in a new pair of shoes.”

“Doesn’t the theater have another pair for you?" Aziraphale stalls, being of no help on purpose. She has missed Crowley way too much to simply let her jete into her shop and act as if she visits weekly for tea when, in reality, they haven't seen one another in a dog's age. "I thought they must, seeing as you haven’t set foot in my shop for around three months.”

“Oh, they have another pair all right,” Crowley moans, not catching the bitter tang in Aziraphale’s words, “but not my favorite! I _need_ my favorite, Aziraphale! I cannot be expected to dance a part as grueling as Aurora without my …” 

Aziraphale gives in. She turns, four brand new pairs of pink satin shoes cradled side by side in her hands like a beloved set of quadruplets. “Are these what you need?” 

“My shoes!” Crowley cheers with an exhalation of relief, scooping the shoes out of Aziraphale’s hands and hugging them tightly to her bosom. “How ever do you manage to get a hold of them when no one else can? And four pairs!? You're a miracle-worker! No! You're an _angel_! That's what you are!”

“Every fitter stocks certain shoes," Aziraphale says, fighting the rush of red to her cheeks. "Supply and demand and all that. You’re the only dancer I know who buys these, and since you're local, _for now_ , I keep them in stock.”

“But they're literally impossible to get a hold of!” Crowley lights gracefully onto Aziraphale’s fitting chair. It's actually an elaborate, gold-scrolled throne - a chair of significant opulence that Aziraphale keeps on hand to make her clients feel appreciated. But with its high back and red velvet cushions, it suits Crowley most of all. “I’ve been looking online everywhere for a pair!”

“You wound me!” Aziraphale gasps, pulling up a pillow and taking to her knees to fit the ballerina. Not that it’s necessary. Crowley has been coming to Aziraphale’s for these same shoes since they showed up in her shop over a year ago. From that moment on, they were the only shoe Crowley would wear. They’re her Cinderella slipper. She barely has to put in any effort, and they do exactly what she needs, each brand new pair responding as if she’s been wearing them for a day of classes. 

If Crowley didn’t know better, she’d say they were made to fit her feet perfectly and her feet alone. But that's ridiculous. Each make of pointe shoe suits a variety of dancers. Still, Crowley has never met another dancer who wears them. 

“You should have come to me first!”

“Don’t take it personally, Aziraphale. It’s always good to have a backup supplier, what with the state of the world today. You understand, don’t you?” 

“Alas, I do," Aziraphale admits sadly, slipping off Crowley's flats and sliding her feet into the satin slippers. "There. How do those feel?”

“Oh, they’re heaven! Simply heaven!" Crowley stands from her seat and rises to her toes, admiring the way her feet look in brand new shoes, even with her legs hidden by baggy practice pants. "So incredibly soft! Like dancing on a cloud! And to think, each pair will last me two, three weeks at least! I don’t know what kind of magic this maker wields that he can create a shoe that lasts me more than a day, especially with all the partnering I’m doing. Why, I’ve been known to break other shoes in around two hours!” Crowley lifts one foot up and peeks at the virgin sole. She reaches down, fingertips tracing the indented star on the center above the brand name. “Star," she says reverently. "Did you know they’re the only maker that doesn’t have their picture on the Freed website?”

“So you keep telling me,” Aziraphale says dryly.

“Do you know who he is?”

“Not at all.”

“Oh come on! All of you fitters know the shoemakers, don’t you?”

“Yes. But not this time, I’m afraid.”

“I’m _dying_ to know what he looks like. To put a face to the shoes, so to speak."

"Does what he looks like matter so much, my dear?" Aziraphale gazes up at the statuesque ballerina looking down in Aziraphale's direction to admire her shoes. She only has eyes for them. Aziraphale sighs. 

Same planet, but two completely different worlds.

"Well, no ..." Crowley says, a tad unconvincingly. "Still, you don’t think he’s like one of those scruffy, beer-drinking, pot-bellied Minotaurs that make the other Freed pointe shoes, do you?”

“I’m not sure.” Aziraphale stands and puts her pillow away. This part of the fitting process always ends the same, with Crowley gushing over the skill and artistry of some unseen craftsman.

“Maybe he doesn’t put his picture up because he’s devastatingly handsome, and he can't stand the attention," Crowley says dreamily, extending an arm over her head, which makes her look twice her height. "I know what that's like." Her pouty red lips pull down at the corners, her love-soaked expression turning sour. "Or maybe because he’s worse than the others: three-feet tall, pot marked cheeks, and only four teeth.”

“Who’s to say it’s even a man, my dear?” Aziraphale gestures for Crowley to retake her seat so that she can sew on her ribbons. Ballerinas normally do the work themselves, but Crowley claims Aziraphale has a special knack for it. Crowley will sew her own ribbons and elastics on in a pinch, but she much prefers the way Aziraphale does it.

And Aziraphale only does it for Crowley.

“Oh, if only." Crowley slides back into the chair and pulls her pant legs up to her knees, exposing her legs all the way to her calves. Aziraphale catches a glimpse of Crowley's toned legs, her shapely calves, and her heart skips a beat. Aziraphale sees gorgeous legs and feet all day long, but Crowley's are exceptional. They're a masterpiece, sculpted through hours of practice and performance, but also luck and phenomenal genes. "But odds are slim," Crowley continues, rolling her ankles to see just how beautiful her feet look in her shoes at all angles. "There are so few female shoemakers in the ballet world. But it would be amazing." Crowley sighs. "Well, whoever he … or _she_ … is, they’d better not think of retiring any time soon. When they make their last shoe, I’ll dance my last dance. I can't even think of dancing in anything but star shoes.”

“I don’t think you have anything to worry about.” Aziraphale reaches into her basket of ribbons for the matte ones Crowley favors, carefully hiding a special leather stamp, one she’d carelessly left out on her work table where anyone could see.

One in the shape of a star.

“I'm sure that if they ever heard that, they'd make your shoes till the end of time.”


End file.
